


Such a deadly thing, a feather

by softshocker



Series: ATEEZ Elf!AU [1]
Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Archery, Call it whatever you want, Dear readers today I offer you archer San, Elves, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Mostly porn but hints of plot, Oral Sex, Pining, So much hand worship, elf!AU, tomorrow... who knows, wood elves to be precise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:21:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22745017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softshocker/pseuds/softshocker
Summary: Yeosang likes watching San's hands. He likes watching San, in general. If San will allow him a physical intimacy to express his admiration, he will take it, and he knows better than to wish for anything more.
Relationships: Choi San/Kang Yeosang
Series: ATEEZ Elf!AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1800721
Comments: 49
Kudos: 273





	Such a deadly thing, a feather

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be short, and completely inspired by one mental image of elf San with a bow. The rest is... something I can only apologize for.  
Shoutout to @bvbbiepops (TWT) for being a thorough beta!

The archers are back. 

It’s not a rare event, yet it’s still curious enough for a small crowd to be gathered, up in the trees, leaning on the railings of their huts and common passages to watch and murmur. A small committee on the ground is welcoming their warriors back from the hunt, but Yeosang is not among them. 

Yeosang watches from above, bone tiles from the game he’d been playing with the others scattered around in his haste, leaning his chin on his arms to shield it from the rough wood of the railing. Of course, he takes the time to mentally thank each of their hunters for providing for them, but his eyes sweep over the squadron, searching for one person in particular. 

There is no real reason he’s looking for San, of all; San is admirable, he’s shown talent for the craft since a very young age, but so has every other archer in the group. They are not friends, because Yeosang has few talents, and he never got into the habit of spending time with their fighters, sticking to the others who stayed to help in the village instead. Truth is, Yeosang simply found a predilection for watching San from afar over the better part of the last century or so, predilection which almost everyone in the village is aware of - whether that includes San, he doesn’t want to know. 

“Yeosang, you can go bring him his clothes now that they’re mended. Maybe he’ll pay you some attention before putting them on.” 

Yeosang doesn’t deign the teasing laughter that erupts around him with a reaction. He focuses on the view below, instead, and San in particular, as a companion helps him unfasten the black leather armor covering his left arm from shoulder to fingertips. 

“It’s been what, eighty years?” 

More, probably, Yeosang counts as he intently watches San laugh at something inaudible. But there are certain things that don’t have to be public knowledge. 

* * *

It’s not much later than Yeosang finds himself standing outside of San’s cabin, holding carefully folded, freshly-mended clothes. The curtain in the doorway is pushed to the side, so he can see the other elf inside sprawled on his furs, eyes closed but not asleep, if the fingers strumming rhythmically against his chest are any indication.

“San?”

San’s eyes fling open. He rolls to his side, then pushes himself up with a wide grin, motioning for Yeosang to come in. 

“I was wondering where you were.”

“I brought you your clothes,” Yeosang explains, walking over so he can lay the pile of garments onto an empty chair for San to sort. The beads and branches woven into the curtain jingle behind him instead of an answer, as San pulls it shut. 

Yeosang’s stomach twists in anticipation. 

“How was the village while I was gone?”

“Nothing happened.” Yeosang shrugs nonchalantly, but he’s sure San can see how tense his every muscle is. “Thanks to you.”

He’s never been able to phrase it explicitly, but San understands, by now, and gifts him with a warm smile. 

“Still wanna thank me for my protection?” he laughs, and Yeosang half-heartedly echoes it in a chuckle, but he still drops to his knees and waits for San to step closer. Amidst the mix of emotions swirling around in his stomach - most of them ones he doesn’t care to explore - he focuses on the relief that washes over him as San walks to him and caresses Yeosang’s cheek, undeservingly tender. 

“You know I won’t deny you.”

Yeosang needs no further invite. 

He begins like he always does, cradling San’s right hand. He looks into the archer’s eyes for permission, presses his lips, soft, hesitant, to the back of his hand when it’s conceded. Yeosang drops to his knees and nuzzles San’s palm, rough and calloused from years of practice, trails butterfly kisses along the lines of his skin, stopping to admire every scar and cut. 

Then, San retracts his hand, only to nudge it against his lips, and Yeosang obeys the silent request. He takes the index finger into his mouth to the first knuckle, tongue running over the rough texture of battle-hardened skin, and doesn’t protest when San pushes in his middle and ring finger, as well. 

Yeosang tries to work at the digits in his mouth as well as he can, running his tongue around them and in the crevices he can find, but San is after something else, and shoves his fingers deep, deeper. Yeosang’s throat constricts around them, but he allows San to press as far as he pleases, relaxing to the best of his abilities. 

Saliva pools in his mouth, and soon enough, he’s drooling all over San’s hand, spit trailing down prominent bones and veins and below San’s wrist, all the way to his forearm. Yeosang’s face feels impossibly hot, embarrassed but so,  _ so  _ aroused he can barely think of anything except for San’s fingers, San’s hands, San’s arm muscles taut as they draw the bowstring and shoot arrows true to their aim. 

There are more fingers, resting on his cheek, holding his head where it’s most comfortable for San to keep prodding at his tongue and throat. It’s San’s left, Yeosang knows, because the left is special  \-  it holds the bow, while his right draws the arrow. Yeosang turns slowly, letting the digits slip out of his mouth, so he can nuzzle at the offered palm instead, planting reverent, open-mouthed kisses along salty skin. 

There’s a deep, faded silver scar, almost the length of a finger, running between San’s index and thumb. Yeosang had been too afraid to ask for years, until San had offered the information himself; it’s the result of centuries of occasional forgetfulness, sharp feathers digging into his hand when the arrow is released and San isn’t wearing his gloves. 

Yeosang bites his lip, eyes searching San’s expression for permission. A delicate thumb caresses his chapped lips, pushing them apart and grazing over his teeth, before it disappears. San grabs Yeosang’s own hand, smaller, softer, and rests his left hand on it, nodding once. 

Yeosang doesn’t need further convincing to press chaste kisses over the back of his hand, running the tip of his nose, then his lips, then his tongue, over the battle scar. 

“I’ll have to stop wearing gloves entirely just so it doesn’t fade and you can keep doing that,” San chuckles, fondly. Yeosang tries to hum, but it comes out as a small whimper, although he himself doesn’t know what it’s supposed to mean. He definitely doesn’t want San’s hands to be hurt any more, but the idea that he would consider it, even mentioned in a moment like this, when it holds no meaning, makes his guts twist in excitement. 

Then, San pushes two fingers inside his lips, without warning, quickly adding a third and a fourth. Yeosang’s mouth is too full, lips stretched to accommodate San’s hand, but he still does his best to work his tongue over and between the digits, flushing scarlet at the thought of those same fingers somewhere different. He wants to be full of San so hard he could explode, wants San to push him down and use him as he prefers, but he can’t bring himself to ask for anything. He can only lie back on his knees and allow San to explore his mouth as he pleases, because that’s what San wants to do. 

He almost sobs in relief when the archer’s free hand prods between his legs, palming Yeosang’s dick through his trousers. He can’t feel shame over his obvious arousal; San’s seen it before, and shown appreciation for it. If San likes it, feels flattered by it, it’s only the truth, and what he deserves, so Yeosang opens his legs wider, both a silent plea and permission for San to do what he wants. 

“May I?” the younger elf still asks. Yeosang nods frantically around the fingers filling his mouth, gasping for air when San’s hand grips his shaft and he finally gets the friction he’d been so desperately needing. 

San works both his hands in unison, pressing against Yeosang’s tongue as he strokes his dick in rhythm. Tears prickle at the corners of Yeosang’s eyes, and he knows he should be embarrassed that this little touch is overwhelming him like this, that he’s drooling all over San’s hand and his own chin, hips rutting pathetically for any friction he can get, but he can’t care, not when San is giving him this sort of attention.

“Fuck-” 

Yeosang barely notices San’s knees buckle before he falls to the ground, over Yeosang’s own lap, straddling him. He removes his right hand from Yeosang’s legs, but before the elder can complain, it’s back to grab onto his shoulders as San rolls their hips together. 

Yeosang gasps, hips immediately kicking forward to meet him. San’s fingers slip out of his throat to hook onto his lips. Some rational part of Yeosang knows he definitely looks hideous right now, or pathetic at the very least, but he doesn’t mind it in the least, because they soon settle into a comfortable rhythm, and the arousal steadily building into his belly that’s spreading warm tingles all over his body is all-consuming. 

The fingers in his mouth are still weighing down on his tongue and lip, so he’s helpless to warn San with anything but the growing volume of his moans before his rhythm stutters and he spends himself in his clothes. He comes to with his weight slumped in San’s arms, the younger holding onto him almost desperately as he keeps riding his thigh, having moved away from his sensitive cock. Yeosang breathes heavily into the sweat-soaked tunic, reliving the blaze of pure pleasure, lips curling in a smile when San moans above him and goes deathly still. 

It takes the archer a few seconds to come down from his high, too, and Yeosang dares to run his fingers in soothing motions on his back as he does so. He stops the moment San’s breathing picks up regularly, dropping his hand and convincing himself San didn’t feel it. 

“We should eventually do a little more than that,” the archer huffs, almost a laugh. Yeosang’s chest shakes with a chuckle, too. He wouldn’t be opposed to that, but he can’t really say it, so he limits himself to humming in agreement. 

“That was nice.”

Another hum. 

“You don’t always have to do this, you know.”

Except Yeosang does. He might not hold any obligations to the village, or San, but he does towards himself. Not only for the gratitude and respect he holds for San, but because of the feelings that are boiling all too vividly in his chest now, too. If he can allow himself this transgression, even though he doesn’t deserve it, he will. 

“I want to,” he mumbles, voice thick with disuse and the abuse that his mouth has been through. “‘S the least I can do.”

That, at least doesn’t leave the bitter taste of a lie in his mouth as he hides his face into San’s chest. 

They rest for a few more breaths; Yeosang counts each one, dreading the moment San will push him away. He inevitably does, and Yeosang inevitably smiles with a small nod of his head. 

“Thank you,” he says, forcing himself to stand on shaky legs and wincing when the stickiness in his trousers shifts along with him. San laughs. Yeosang feels so undignified he can’t do anything but laugh along and remove his trousers; his tunic is long enough to cover whatever it needs to, anyway. 

“Stride of pride back to your cabin?” 

“No one is around to see,” Yeosang laughs, folding his pants over his shoulder so they’re easier to carry on his way up the ladder bridges that connect the trees of the village. “At most I’ll just say I got them wet while washing the food. No need to worry.”

San observes him, head bent to the side like a curious fox. He doesn’t say anything, though, so Yeosang takes it as a cue to leave. 

As he walks over the bridge connecting San’s cabin to the main crossroad platform connecting the huts of the village, he’s already counting down the days until he will have an excuse to do this again. 

* * *

The rest of the day is uneventful, beside sneer comments from his friends about how he should man up and confess his feelings. Yeosang keeps his mouth shut throughout all of it, laughs when appropriate, and eats his dinner around the bonfire they’ve set for the semi-special occasion, stealing occasional glances at San, where he’s sat with the rest of his team. He allows himself to fantasize, for a fleeting moment, about coming clean with the situation to everyone, only to chuckle at himself. Maybe, in another century or so, San will develop feelings for him, instead of growing bored as he is likely to. Maybe Yeosang could consider it, then. Until that moment, he keeps his lips sealed; he may want little more than to thank San for protecting and providing for the village, and San might indulge him regularly, but the younger’s reputation is not something Yeosang would taint for his own selfish purposes. 

The morrow finds him waking late to light filtering in through his door and birdsongs he can’t be as fond of when they act as an insistent morning call. He washes the sleep out of his eyes, sprinkling water on his face from a bowl he keeps nearby, and rummages his shelves to find some bread that isn’t quite too stale yet to force down his throat before he can set about his daily tasks. 

He first sees San as he’s bringing water back from the river, training with the other archers at the base of the trees that hold their houses. He lowers his bow and waves to him, smiling widely. 

Yeosang almost trips on his way up and spills the jugs all over the archer squadron. 

It’s barely half an hour later that he hears soft footsteps approaching as he’s washing the load of clothes he was assigned for the day. 

“May I keep you company?” San asks, smiling, bright and warm, above him. Yeosang wills his heart to still, as he nods after a short beat of hesitation. 

“If that is what you wish.”

“I  _ wish _ to get to know you better.” San says, sitting down, cross-legged, by his side. “And yes, your company would delight me.”

“I’m just… washing clothes.” Yeosang vaguely motions to the bucket in front of him, dripping water onto the wood as he does so. “Sorry about that. Might take a while. You can leave whenever you get bored.”

“I know.”

San doesn’t say anything else, so Yeosang keeps quiet, as well, clamping down on all the questions he would never have the courage to ask as he rubs clothes over the washboard. 

San’s eyes stay fixed on the bucket the entire time, trailing the movement of his hands, until Yeosang breaks down with a sigh. 

“What are you looking at?”

“Your hands,” San shrugs, as if it were the most obvious answer. Yeosang raises a brow, never slowing in his work.

“They’re pretty,” he adds. “You have scars, as well.”

“Just… sewing mistakes.” Yeosang shrugs, dropping the tunic he’s washing to show the little blemishes better. “They’re not nearly on the same level as yours,” he adds, willing his shame away. He accepted his role a long time ago. 

“May I?” 

San’s hand remains extended as he patiently waits, the only sound around them birds and insects chirping in the forest. Yeosang considers every reason he could be asking, besides simply making fun of him, but he can’t find any plausible ones, nor does he believe San to be cruel enough to mock him, so he nods. 

San’s hands are gentle in his own, touch so light one could think he’s trying to coax a butterfly rather than… well, Yeosang. His fingers trail over the veins in the back of his hands, flip them to follow the lines in his palms, every bit as reverently as Yeosang does to him, splay to meet Yeosang’s own fingers and bend over the part of them that they don’t touch, because San’s hand are so much bigger, so much stronger. 

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Yeosang’s blood rushes to his face and ears. “Nothing to thank me for.” He doesn’t say the rest of it - that he does nothing useful, has no talent to contribute to anything but menial tasks, and whatever scars San can see on his hands aren’t from service and bravery and talent, but merely the result of his own clumsiness - but he knows San understands it, because his eyes harden.

“All I do is throw arrows at things,” San sighs, running a thumb on the back of Yeosang’s hands. Yeosang wants to protest, proclaim how incredible what San does is, but San doesn’t give him the space to speak. “I can sleep warm at night because of the blankets you fix. We all drink the water you bring to the village.” 

Yeosang can only hold his breath as San brings his hand to his lips. He can feel San’s breath, searing hot, on his fingers, but he doesn’t dare move for fear that he will break the spell of this moment. 

“These weave baskets that we keep our food in. Your fingers are like this, because you made sure we can eat healthy food-” he plops the slightest kiss to the pad of Yeosang’s index, pruned from the water, “-and wear clean clothes.” 

Yeosang is completely powerless to stop the pathetic whine that rips out of his throat. His whole face, neck and ears burn in embarrassment, but the way San smiles up at him, warm, sincere, is making his stomach and chest twist all sorts of ways, and he doesn’t want it to stop. 

“You always thank me for my work. Would you let me do the same?” 

Yeosang doesn’t deserve it, not even close to it, but he can’t do anything but nod. He’d allow San to do almost anything to him. Whatever this is, is nothing. 

San kisses the tip of his index finger again, a soft  _ thank you _ , before he takes it into his mouth, much like Yeosang does to him. The difference is that Yeosang doesn’t feel like he can demand anything from San; he could never push him to take more. 

San does, though, gladly, swirling his tongue around Yeosang’s fingertips, gently biting the pads of his fingers, pressing kisses and soft smiles into his palms. 

The elder gasps when San finally takes his fingers into his mouth, closing his lips around the base and sucking softly. Saliva coats the digits, warm and wet, and Yeosang can feel his fingertips push against San’s throat as he tries to keep massaging them with his tongue. 

A hand splays against his belly. Yeosang jumps with an undignified squeal.

The warmth in his hand fades; he whines as San pulls back from his fingers to breathe, a line of saliva connecting his lips to Yeosang’s fingertips. They breathe, chests heaving in unison, as San maintains eye contact, pupils swirling with intent, and opens lovely, red-bitten lips to inhale. 

“I want to suck your dick dry.” 

Yeosang chokes on air. San keeps his gaze, so level-headed that one wouldn’t think he’d just allowed such crudeness to leave his lips. 

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah-  _ yes _ , that’s okay.” He doesn’t say  _ please _ , to conserve his dignity, and make this easier when San leaves, but the heat pooling in his groin and lower belly is so hot it almost hurts, and he feels like if San doesn’t touch him  _ now _ he will burst into a miserable flame and waste away.

San’s lips curl in a smile, white teeth peeking and eye corners crinkling in delight. Yeosang thanks all the spirits he springs to action so quickly, because he’s ready to get rid of his clothes himself and beg for San to make good on his offer.

Agitated hands work at the drawstrings holding his trousers on as Yeosang’s desperation only grows. He wants this so badly, he could cry of relief once the garment’s pushed down and thrown to the side. 

Hands splay across his hips, pushing his tunic up. Cold fingertips trail freezing touches over his belly, making his skin rise in goosebumps; he is somehow vaguely aware of his breathing, shallow, trembling, but right now, he can’t move, can’t squirm, can’t do anything except watch as San digs his fingers in Yeosang’s thighs to push them open where he’s kneeling and goes down onto his elbows to swallow him without hesitation. 

The moment San’s lips seal around his shaft, Yeosang’s self-control shatters. A high-pitched moan escapes his lips, surprised whines following it as San’s head bobs up and down, depriving him of warmth only to give it back immediately, over and over again. His tongue trails from base to tip, pointed, teasing, not enough, then his lips close around his head and he sucks,  _ hard. _ Yeosang digs his hands into San’s hair,  _ screaming _ , fingers lacing into the woven braids and pulling for support. San keens in return, breath hot against his shaft, vibrations reverberating through his dick and making Yeosang’s thighs shake with pleasure; he sucks with more effort, cheeks hollowing. 

It’s too much for the remnants of Yeosang’s sanity. His hips are moving before he can realize, but when Yeosang hits the back of San’s throat, the archer only groans in appreciation and redoubles his efforts, swirling his tongue over the head of his dick with newfound intent. 

Yeosang drops the iron grip he has on San’s braids, letting his arms lie limp at his side and giving San all the control he’s willing to take. He’s soon lying on the ground, unaware of having moved beyond how he’s squirming even now, and his hips are bucking into San’s mouth on their own, driven by pure instinct. 

It takes him an embarrassingly short amount of time before he stills and spills inside San’s mouth, trembling with the intensity of the unexpected pleasure. 

When he comes to again, it’s to San looking down at him, cheeks blown like a squirrel with the effort of holding Yeosang’s come in. The elder blinks up, clearing the remnants of his high for a few seconds, before he bursts out laughing with his whole chest. San’s eyebrows furrow in offense, but it only makes him giggle harder at the image. 

He only stops because of the way his heart is thumping in his chest; he’s familiar enough with his own body to know it will start hurting soon, if he allows this post-sex affection to continue into something more emotional. 

“You can spit that, I won’t be offended,” he manages to croak, throat sore from use.

San makes a little noise of distress and gulps, swallowing before he opens his mouth to stick out his tongue. When he speaks, his brows are still drawn in offense. 

“I wanted you to look at me.”

Yeosang’s heart thumps in his chest again, in that familiar way he’s grown to love and hate at once. He forces it down, cancelling any thoughts he has of inquiring, commenting, anything that might be influenced by his blood still pumping strong in his ears and the lingering rush of attachment that’s only natural after such… activities. 

“Thank you,” he coughs instead, sitting up so he can pick up the laundry he abandoned.

“Thank  _ you, _ ” San comments. “Can I watch you?”

Yeosang rubs at a stubborn stain more harshly than he probably should. He considers it for a moment, intently avoiding San’s gaze, then sighs.    
“I already told you, San. Whatever you wish.”

* * *

The day after that, Yeosang is fixing a blanket that has fallen victim to a very angry bird when an arrow plunges into the bark behind him. 

He wills the adrenaline running in his veins to still, carefully peeking down the rails to check. He’s met with the sight of San waving him down. So much for calming down. 

He still abandons the blanket to its destiny without a second thought, almost running down the ladder bridge through the curious glances that the elves around steal at him. 

He’s not used to this. He’s been…  _ thanking _ San for his service for the better part of the last twenty years, give or take, and in all that time, he’s never dared approach him again until the next time he left and returned from a hunting or scouting mission, and San has never showed any intention to interact much further. This is new, standing in front of San, chest heaving from his jog, heart beating from the exercise, and maybe the way San is smiling at him- but Yeosang could never look a gift horse in the mouth for too long. 

“I...” San hesitates. “Would you like to come practice with me?” 

Yeosang is nodding before he’s aware of it, following San’s bright smile into the woods almost mindlessly. They walk for what feels like a small eternity, but is probably much shorter, until they reach a small clearing set up with makeshift targets.

“We come here when we need some quiet,” San explains, bright. He heads to a small pile of archery supplies without hesitation, picking up two simple bows and weighing them on his hands. “Which means that no one will disturb us. Try this one?”

Yeosang looks back and forth between the offered bow and San’s face. 

“I… San, I can’t shoot. I’m bad at it.  _ Really  _ bad.” 

“Good thing I’m really good, then.” San rests the bow on Yeosang’s palm, and Yeosang, almost against his control, closes his hand around it. He hasn’t held a bow in centuries, but San smiles wide enough for his dimples to show, and that has to be enough for Yeosang to embarrass himself publicly. Well, in front of San, which is much worse.

“Do you shoot right or left?” At Yeosang’s silence, San’s lips purse in a pout. He really didn’t expect Yeosang to be  _ this _ bad, it seems. “Do you have an eye you see better from?”

“Not… that I know of?” 

“Right it is, then. Hold the bow with your left, pull with your right.”

Yeosang does as instructed, an experimental tug that leaves the string vibrating in place, and looks up at San only to see him flinching.    
“Oh, gods. Please don’t dry pull. These bows are practice weapons at best, I don’t want one breaking and splintering on you.”

Yeosang ignores the blood rushing to his face. He was bound to do something stupid anyway. He can most likely just hide in his cabin after this and pretend he never existed, after San is amused enough. 

“Quiver goes on the side of the hand you shoot with,” San explains as he fastens one around his shoulder. “And if you don’t wear armor, or gloves at least, you end up like me.”

Yeosang thinks San’s hands are gorgeous, but there is no use in repeating it again, so he just watches them as they strap weathered leather to Yeosang’s forearm and rummage the messy pile for a pair of gloves. 

“There we go,” San praises once they’re on, and Yeosang feels like a child wearing his parents’ clothes to play pretend. “Now show me your best shot.”

Yeosang does, nocking the arrow with some effort. It takes a few tries of the arrow falling from the string before he can properly pull, but in the end he manages to shoot it, at least. It goes off in the distance, hitting the ground far from any of the targets, least of all the one Yeosang was aiming at, and San besides him shakes with the effort to contain his laughter. 

“Is that enough proof for you?” Yeosang asks, grinning. San smiles back and shakes his head, coming up to hold Yeosang from behind. 

“Chin low. Elbow out, like this,” he demonstrates, nudging Yeosang into the proper position. “Your weight goes on the balls of your feet. You’re shooting right, so you can also close your left eye if you prefer, especially if you really see equally well from both. Try now.”

Yeosang gulps, pulling the string once again. 

“More. The string reaches your nose. Hand goes all the way here,” San explains, tapping the side of Yeosang’s cheek. 

When he releases the string, the arrow goes flying with considerably more strength, although it still misses the target by a wide shot. 

“That was better!”

“It was… not,” Yeosang laughs. San shakes his head, flicking his forehead light as a fly. “It was much closer. Archery takes years to even begin to master.”

“You show me, then.”

San takes his own bow out of its holster, nocking the arrow and shooting before Yeosang even has a chance to admire his posture. He cannot even say the self-satisfied grin on the other’s lips is misplaced, because something jumps in his belly as the arrow plunges into the dead center of the target, and it’s something of a nature decidedly alien to archery. 

“Go on, then, your turn.”

They spend the next few hours shooting arrows until the targets are full of shafts sticking out and Yeosang’s arms are sore and strained. The sun has drawn a good part of its arc, and their clothes are matted with sweat, but they’re both laughing, and Yeosang thinks he might be developing some abdominal muscle from how hard he’s been shaking with uncontained amusement. 

“You’re slacking off,” San reprimands, with no real ill intent behind it. 

“I hit the target, didn’t I?”

San pushes him, too light to really throw him off balance, but Yeosang falls for the sake of it, pulling San down with him. 

“Hey, that’s playing unfair!” the archer protests, grabbing Yeosang’s tunic to roll them both over so that he’s straddling the elder. 

Yeosang grins, kicking his hips to shove San off his position and climb over him. 

For a moment, time expands and slows down. Yeosang is hyperaware of the sun on them, the gentle breeze moving their hair where it isn’t matted to their foreheads with sweat; the birds chirping, loud as ever, the grass and soil staining their clothes, San’s breathing below him, his hair fanned out where it’s not braided in the centre. 

“So are you going to kiss me before sundown, or do I have to wait another twenty years?” 

Yeosang bends down to seal their lips before he can regret it. It’s warm, gentle, and San only pushes back as much as Yeosang invites him. It’s Yeosang who takes the lead, licks at San’s lips, shoves his tongue in San’s mouth when they part in invitation. San’s hands scramble to find purchase, gripping Yeosang’s already battered wrist guards for support, where Yeosang is running his thumb over his cheeks. 

Yeosang could explode. He could fly away into a million butterflies, become a spirit of love and joy. Nothing he’s ever done - not with San, not with anyone - has ever made his heart ache so much, and in such a lovely strum. He could live forever, like this, kissing San for all that he will allow him, feeding off his warmth and attention.

But San pulls away to breathe, and Yeosang doesn’t approach him first, not again. 

“Will you let me court you?" San blurts, eyes fixed on Yeosang's. Yeosang thinks he might have forgotten how to breathe. "Court you for real, not just sex. Let everyone know I’m trying to get you.”

“You have me,” the elder huffs in disbelief. San shakes his head, pressing a lightning-quick kiss to the tip of Yeosang’s nose. 

“I’m going to bring you back my best prey from hunts, and make you a proper courtship necklace. I’ll bring you random gifts from the forest that remind me of you. I want to bring you on walks with me and forget about our duties. Court you as I should. Will you allow me? I won’t, if you don’t want me to. It’s okay if this wasn’t about more than thanking me or whatever. But if it’s okay with you, I would love to.”

Yeosang wills his heart to  _ stop _ doing whatever it's doing that constricts his chest so much he wants to burst into tears. He pretends to think about it, lips curved into a grin of their own will. “Where will you chase me if I say yes?”

“I’ll court you first,” San insists, “And if you say yes after that, I'll chase you by by the lake, because I've been saying I would do all my rituals there since I was sixty." 

Yeosang laughs, shaking with excitement. “I’d love that. And I’d love to court you, as well, if you’ll allow me.” 

San smiles, dimples in full view, and presses their noses together for a heartbeat. “I think that’s acceptable.”

Yeosang could stay here for centuries, entwined with San, watching every little detail and imperfection of his face, his hands, everything San is willing to show him.

“We should go back,” he breathes, because he knows he won’t be able to suggest it later. San pulls him in to kiss him again, a soft peck that’s gone before Yeosang can really feel it. 

“Just a little longer." 

Yeosang can’t find it in him to protest the idea. 

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't find a place to fit this crucial information within the fic, but San does his braids differently every day. I did so much research on possible hairstyles, because Yeosang always keeps his hair in a short tail/bun, but San's braids are something I meant to play with, and I threw all that effort away. I'm seething in my cage. Other tidbit of probably useless information, Yeosang here is a few decades older than San. We're talking elves so MUCH longer lifespans. 
> 
> If you enjoyed, pwease consider leaving a kudos/bookmark or especially a comment! It does motivate your writers so much. I can also be found on Twitter (and CC!) @softshocker, so feel super free to drop by and talk about writing, concepts, or the boys- I love company!


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